


The Sorrows Of Healing

by AuroraKant



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: (against Damian and Dick), AU From Battle of the Cowl, Brotherly Bonding, Bruce Wayne is Dead, Damian Wayne is Robin, Depression, Dick Grayson is Batman, Dick Grayson is Damian Wayne’s Parent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Gen, Grief, Happy Ending, Healing, Hospitals, Past Child Abuse, Racism, Reconciliation, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy, They Just Need Some Help Realizing That, Tim Drake is Red Robin, they all love each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:00:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27366931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraKant/pseuds/AuroraKant
Summary: It was Dick who'd taken up the Cowl after Bruce had died. It was Dick who'd become Batman, taking Damian, Tim, and Alfred with him to the penthouse for a fresh start.But things could never be that easy. All of them were haunted by sorrow: Tim not capable of believing that his second father was gone as well, Dick almost breaking under the pressure of standing tall in the face of a crisis, Damian uncomfortable and lost in these unfamiliar waters he was forced to navigate, and Alfred mourning yet another child.Or: In a world in which Bruce actually died, becoming a family again is harder than some might think. In the midst of fights, the racist white Gotham High Society, and Tim, who fled the nest in a last attempt to resurrect something that no longer exists, it is hard to find hope, and yet all of them somehow manage to do so anyways.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne
Comments: 28
Kudos: 254
Collections: DCU Big Bang 2020





	The Sorrows Of Healing

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Goodbye [Artwork for Sorrows of Healing]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27376078) by [2bnallegory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/2bnallegory/pseuds/2bnallegory). 



> Hello to this Masterpiece!  
> After 4 months in the making, I really hope you guys are going to enjoy this different take on what happened after Bruce died - this time for real.  
> I want to thank 2bnallegory for their amazing art!  
> And [Soph/cinnamint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamint), my beta, for their absolutely beautiful work - she really helped me refine this piece! <3

Gotham City by rain was bleak.

Who was he kidding? Gotham City was always bleak, but as he stared across the city, taking in the grey skyscrapers and the office buildings tinted black from soot and pollution, Dick realized just how ugly this city he had sworn to protect truly was.

Or maybe it was his own tears that colored the world in a blurry gray.

Dick had been crying silently for hours now, staring across the city from the big window in his room in the penthouse. A room he had never lived in before. But now it was his. The master bedroom of a Wayne property he’d never wanted.

He had been happy in Blüdhaven, far away enough from all the Gotham crazy to have his own life, to be Dick Grayson, but still close enough to be available when he was needed. Not anymore. Now, Gotham belonged to him, his birthright – or his right by adoption? – being passed onto him against his will. 

His thoughts were sluggish, shifting through the chaos in his head like blind divers, unable to see which catastrophe they were going to uncover next. He had done his best to be strong during those last few weeks, to be the shoulder the entire Superhero community could cry on, but he was breaking. He was done.

The next time someone came to him crying, the next time Tim or Jason or  _ Damian  _ yelled at him, Dick would just break down sobbing. Dick wasn’t even sure if he was strong enough to bear the heartbroken gaze of Alfred whenever he set the table one person short anymore. Heck, Dick wanted to cry whenever he  _ saw _ the empty seat at the dinner table.

And to think that this was the first time Dick actually managed to do it; to cry.

Because he had been strong. He had cared for everyone else, and only now, weeks _after_ the catastrophe happened, did he allow himself to grief, too.

Because his dad was dead. Because Bruce died and left Dick behind. Because his dad was gone, and Dick had to pick up the pieces left behind.

They had been the original Dynamic Duo. They had been the first Batman and Robin. And now there was only Robin left; only Dick left.

This wasn’t how the story was supposed to go. They were supposed to be forever. They were supposed to be the heroes who survived against all odds.

This was the first time Dick let his tears flow, let his chest heave, and his brain shut down. And there was so much pain in him, so much hurt. How could he go on being the strong one, if he felt like this? How should he grieve if he was only allowed moments of weakness, while no one was looking?

His forehead rested against the windowpane, the cool glass somewhat slowing his racing thoughts.

His life had changed so much during the last few weeks. It had all started with Bruce dying, him and his brothers fighting over a Cowl none of them truly wanted, and it ended with him winning. He didn’t want to be Batman, had never wanted it. He was a Robin, a bird meant to fly the colorful skies.

Not anymore. No Robin. No Nightwing.  _ Only Batman _ .

The Dick Grayson from before no longer existed. He had quit his job as a fitness instructor in a Blüdhaven Gym/Dance Studio, and the lease on his apartment had expired without Dick renewing it. Why did it matter that that apartment had been the first one to feel like  _ home  _ since Blockbuster? Why did it matter that he had only just unpacked the last of his boxes? Why did it matter that Dick had done everything to never end up where he currently was?

It didn’t. It didn’t matter at all. Dick Grayson’s biggest flaw had always been his loyalty to Bruce, and when his father died, Dick did everything to fill the role he had been groomed to fulfill.

The Dick Grayson he used to be didn’t exist anymore and now he had to figure out  _ who _ he was. Who was Dick without his dad? Who was Dick without Nightwing but with the Cape and the Cowl? Who was Dick with a Robin of his own by his side?

There was a knock on the door. It could only be one of three people, and Dick would do anything to make sure none of them saw him broken down like this. His hoodie sleeve found his eyes, furiously rubbing them dry, when he said:

“Come in?”

It was Tim. The boy – young man? – had deep bags under his eyes, his inky black hair falling limply onto a face too pale and drawn for a person this young. Dick wanted to hug him, wanted to crush him with love and concern and security until Tim could smile again without having to almost die for it.

“Hey, Dick… you okay?”

“Yeah… I’m just… tired…”

None of them were at their best, but it was Dick’s duty now to help them keep upright, to save them, even if he couldn’t save himself. He left the window behind, instead opting to take a seat on the unnecessarily big bed in the middle of the room. He motioned for Tim sit next to him:

“Come. Tell me what you need.”

_ Please let it be a hug. _ Dick could go for a hug right now, the tears still burning behind his eyes. But Tim had grown skittish over the last year – or actually, even more skittish – and Dick knew why. He just wished he could do anything to ease his pain.

Tim complied, his steps, like everything about him these days, silent. He was thin, Dick noted, when his little brother finally took a seat next to him. Thin and pale and so, so lost.

If Dick could take all of his pain away, if he could end the suffering him and his brothers – and Alfred! – were going through, he would do it. In a heartbeat, no matter the cost.

“I… Dick, are you going to take Robin away?”

Why couldn’t it have been a hug? Dick couldn’t help his startled flinch or the surprised look that most have shown on his face. He also couldn’t help but notice how resigned Tim looked, how utterly numb to whatever Dick would say next:

“It’s… I’m not sure yet. It’s really complicated. Or not. I don’t know. I… Damian will end up in the hands of the League if I don’t do something to keep him here. And… Robin is a great chance for that.”

“He tried to kill me. Multiple times.”

It was concerning how disinterested Tim sounded while he reminded Dick of these horrible instances Dick liked to forget.

“And that is not okay. Will never be okay… but… You are my equal, Tim. You’ve been a hero for over four years. You are intelligent, strong, you’re my brilliant little brother. But… I can’t treat you like my Robin… I mean… you’re too good for that… too strong and independent. Every Robin needs to fly alone, someday. Become something else. And… what if this is the time for you to do that?”

Now emotions were visible on Tim’s face. It felt like Dick was watching Pompei crumble into dusk. Tears were streaming down the sharp lines of Tim’s cheeks, his shoulders hunching up in a last effort to protect himself. He was shaking, his thin frame barely holding together.

“But what if I don’t want that? What if I don’t want to be your equal just yet? What if I want to be protected just a little longer? I’m not strong, Dick, not right now. I’m really, really not…”

Dick no longer cared if Tim wanted a hug or not, he needed one. It was easy to pull Tim into his embrace, to push the tear-streaked face of his little brother into the crook of his neck, to rub circles on his shaking form. 

They were all so broken. They were all so lost.

“But you are. You are so strong. Look at what you did. Look at what you achieved. Look at what you survived, and tell me, that isn’t a sign of great strength.”

Tim was only crying harder and it was near impossible for Dick to push down his own tears. But now was not the place nor the time. Tim needed him.

“I love you, Big Bird, I love you.”

“Then why are you taking Robin away?”

Tim’s voice was silent, smushed against Dick’s neck as his mouth was. But that didn’t mean that Dick couldn’t hear the heartbreak in it.

“I…”

_ I don’t want to lose Damian, too. He is one of the only things Bruce left behind and I can’t deal with losing anything else he touched. Because Damian is a child and no matter how much of a bastard he is, he deserves a chance. He deserves a childhood and hope and love. And I don’t have any idea how to keep this child by my side otherwise. _

He said none of that. Instead he pulled Tim closer until he could feel every bone and muscle on the teenager’s body.

“I love you. And-”

“ _ I don’t want to hear it _ .”

Tim entangled himself, his movements rash and abrupt. There was an angry red tint covering his cheeks beneath the tear stains.

“Tim…”

“No! I… I have lost so much, Dick, so much. And you’re taking Robin away, too. For the brat! I… I can’t right now. Not when I have a lead. Not now, Dick. Why now?”

Tim was a mess. Tears and anger colored his face, his desperation visible in his clenched jaw and fists. Dick didn’t know where he had gone wrong, but it felt like watching a train wreck.

“What lead?”

“The tapestry… Bruce is alive, Dick. I know it. I just need…”

For a moment Dick had felt hope surge through his body, just hearing how sure Tim sounded, but then the reality came rushing back. Bruce was dead. He had been killed by Darkseid, Superman had brought them the disfigured corpse.

Bruce was dead. His dad was dead. And nothing Tim said changed that:

“Bruce isn’t alive, Tim. We saw his body. We know who killed him. We had a funeral – twice to be accurate. He is dead.”

“He isn’t! I know what I saw! I know that the tapestry in Wayne Manor shows him! I know it!”

“Tim… please… those tapestries are ancient; it is probably just some ancestor or pure coincidence…”

Dick was so, so tired. He couldn’t do this. He would break. He would cry and sob and embarrass himself in front of Tim. Tim, who needed him. Tim, who was so desperate after years of people dying that he would latch onto everything. Every sliver of a chance.

“We are Superheroes, Dick. News Flash: There is no such thing as a coincidence. It has to mean something! He is alive, Dick, I know it…  _ I know it! _ ”

It was heartbreaking. It was infuriating. Dick stared at his little brother, trying to comprehend that this anxious, angry, terrified teenager was the same kid, with a tooth gap, a grin, and a camera that had stood in front of his apartment door almost five years prior.

Dick wanted that time back. When Tim had been happy, when Dick had had hope and the world had still been so much brighter.

“Tim. This is… delu- no, it is too much, Tim. Please, I can’t deal with this right now.”

That had been the wrong thing to say.

“Oh, so you think that I am crazy now. That I’ve lost my marbles. That poor fucking Tim Wayne has finally, finally lost it! Fuck you, Dick! Fuck you! I needed you! I need you… and you think I’m crazy?”

Another one of Dick’s biggest flaws was his temper, and that he never quite managed to learn how to control it. And this was a high stress situation, had been for weeks, Dick wanted to cry and scream and never wake up. But right now he could only do one of those things:

“Okay, you didn’t want to be my equal, so you’re not. You stay here, Tim, and you get over yourself!  _ Bruce is dead _ ! Accept it and do as you are told! Because I can’t take this anymore either!”

“Fuck you, Dick. I am going to find Bruce and you will be sorry! Damian can have Robin for all I care! I wouldn’t want to work under your shit Batman anyway! Fuck you!”

“Well, fuck off then! Go! And come back when you are ready to accept the facts!”

Tim slammed the door on his way out of Dick’s room. And then he slammed the door to the living room. By the time it occured to Dick what he had said, he could even hear the dull sound of the front door being slammed shut.

Tim had left.

And the last few minutes returned to Dick with a ferocity. Oh, God, why had he said that? Why had he done that? No. He needed to call Tim, needed to explain himself. He had to tell him how sorry he was, that he was stressed and sad and lost and he didn’t know what he was saying. He didn’t mean it.

A sob escaped him, dread filling him up from head to toe.

He was a horrible, horrible person. He had told his little brother to get lost. His Big Bird, his Timmy. The kid he had helped raise, the kid he had hugged when his parents died, and held when the nightmares got too bad.

His Timmy.

Dick buried his head in his hands, sobs racking his body. He was just lucky that Alfred and Damian would only return this evening from their shopping trip.

He had fucked up. Royally fucked up. But Dick had no idea how to deal with the hope. What if Bruce was alive? How long would Dick be able to live on the pure hope alone before it would crush him? Before it would bury him so deep, he might never find a way out of his grief?

Dick wasn’t strong enough, had never really been all that strong at all. He had been good at faking it. He had been good in hiding his own pain, his own lost feelings.

He curled up on top of his bed, face pressed against the mattress to muffle his cries of pain and waited for the will to live to come back. For the determination to knock on his door again and force him to get the fuck back up again.

He waited for a long time.

Damian was… Damian was an experience.

“I will not eat this piece of low-quality bread, Pennyworth.”

“It is toast, Master Damian, and it will be the only thing you eat today because Master Dick forgot to buy breakfast foods or ingredients besides toast and cereal. Again.”

There was ice in Alfred’s tone and Dick couldn’t even be mad about it. Ever since Tim left – and he wouldn’t answer the calls and texts Dick sent in his direction – Alfred had been miffed. Hah, miffed. What a British word to express how fucking mad Alfred was with him.

The mood in the penthouse was weird, had been weird even before Tim vanished, but now it had gotten even worse. All of them were grieving, some more, some less, but the death of Batman shadowed all of their lives. And now Bruce’s other kid left after a fight with Dick.

With Dick, who was supposed to hold all of them together.

He made up for it by doing more of the chores Alfred filled his days with. The old butler had lost his son, and while stress cooking was a delicious coping strategy, it wasn’t a healthy one. So, Dick had taken it upon himself to do the shopping for the household and to help clean regularly. Alfred could need some more time to himself and soon enough they would have to start homeschooling Damian. That would be stress enough for the old man, maybe even enough to distract him from the pain.

“Pff, then Grayson should go to the store and buy some acceptable bread.”

The only problem with Dick shopping for the three of them was that Dick had grown used to shopping like a mid-twenties guy living off his first salary. He bought cheap stuff instead of regionally sourced, he bought filling things instead of nutritious ones.

And that didn’t meet the tastes of neither Damian nor Alfred.

“I’ll go to the shop this afternoon after the meeting at WE. Text me a list and I’ll make sure that I buy the right kind of bread this time, yeah?”

Dick was nursing his second cup of coffee, knowing that even this cup wouldn’t be enough to make him feel awake. Sleep barely graced him anymore and Dick used that as an excuse to stay out even longer as Batman than he normally would.

Not that he was usually Batman, but…

Dick had started training Damian after Tim left, but the boy was still too angry to go on patrol with him. But soon, Dick could feel it in his aching left knee, Damian would be ready. Soon Robin would fly next to Batman again.

Until then Dick enjoyed the complete exhaustion that forced him to sleep when he came back at 4 or 5am. He enjoyed the darkness, the loneliness, the heartache when he wore the Cowl, and he enjoyed how he wasn’t himself when he wore it. He was Batman. Not a Dick Grayson left to freefall. Left unable to catch himself.

“You really can do nothing right, can you?”

With that Damian pushed his chair away from the table and left the dining area. He hadn’t eaten anything, and all Dick could do was stare at the retreating form of his little brother and wonder how he would ever manage to do what Bruce did. If Dick could ever be a father to someone like Damian, who hated him on a deeply personal level.

Who would never accept him to be good enough because of the simple fact that Dick wasn’t Bruce Wayne.

Well, story of his life.

Next to him Alfred sighed and where once the butler would have offered advice or a comforting touch to the shoulder, he now only collected the dishes and returned them to the kitchen:

“I will send you a list of ingredients, Master Dick, and remember to shop in Whole Foods this time and not Target. And do the dishes, I have free time, after all, and a grave to visit.”

“Yes, Alfred”

Alfred excused himself with a nod, and thinly veiled hurt in his eyes. The man had lost his son and all Dick did was chase Tim away, too. Just for a chance to keep Damian in the family. And what had he done with that? The kid thought Dick was an imbecile and an idiot.

Left alone in the giant loft-like room that functioned as their kitchen, dining area and living room, Dick continued to stare in his coffee. Maybe the black swirls of caffeine would tell him how to solve this mess. Or maybe they would just help him drown his sorrows in mildly addictive substances.

Dick really needed to sleep more.

On the way to his room to get ready, Dick passed by the room Damian had chosen for himself when they moved in. It was the room that was the easiest to defend, placed in one corner with a view of all the entrances to the penthouse – the front door, and the giant windowpane that stretched across one side of the penthouse from the kitchen to Dick’s room.

The door was open when Dick walked past it this time, and he couldn’t stop himself from taking a curious glance inside. Damian had never once let him enter, and against his Bat-installed instincts, Dick had respected Damian’s wishes and stayed outside. But a look? A look couldn’t hurt, right?

The room was neat, tidy in a way that Dick feared had been beaten into Damian. Only a few personal items were lying around: a sword was showcased on the wall opposite the door and a few of the worksheets Dick had found online and printed out laid on the desk in disarray.

Damian himself was in the room, too, his back turned away from the door, listening to music on the noise-cancelling-headphones Dick had gotten him – the only gift Damian had ever accepted from him – and scribbling on an old book, something he had probably found laying around from the good old days when this penthouse had been used as a last minute accommodation for WE business partners. 

Seeing the boy like this always sent a pang through Dick’s heart. People liked to tell him how much Damian reminded them of Bruce, but Dick could only see all the ways in which he wasn’t like his father. Damian’s skin was darker in a shade; much closer to Dick’s tan skin than to Bruce’s pasty white. And his eyes were a dark moss green, nothing like the pale blue of his father. His nose was all wrong, too straight and narrow, and his chin too pointy because Damian was a child.

But people looked Dick (and Damian) in the eye and said “Oh, such a sweet boy, just like his father!” and Dick hated it – he was sure Damian hated it too – because the boy looked like his mother, because the hints of Bruce Wayne in Damian’s face were just that: hints. And he hated it because Damian knew it too and the boy flinched back whenever someone reminded him of the fact that he would never truly look like the man he had wanted to meet so badly. That he would never be the white upper-class man his father had been.

That he would always be Damian al Ghul Wayne, son of Bruce and Talia equally.

And sometimes that was all Dick could see as well.

But his view into the room didn’t just remind him of stuffy old – racist – people and his own disillusions, it reminded him of his own childhood as well. Of his crayon drawings of the circus; the ones he had created very early in his time at the Manor, back when he was too afraid to ask for anything. The crayons had been from his parents’ trailer, one of the very few things that managed to stay with Dick, and he had used them to draw his home over and over again, until one of the crayons broke and Dick cried.

Bruce had found him back then and hugged him. He had taken his drawings and hung them on the fridge and in the Great Hall, and when Dick was smiling again, Bruce bought him another set of crayons and helped him draw the Manor.

What Dick saw from his position at the door was something similar.

Dick saw that Damian was frustrated with the way his pen caught in the cheap paper, how it ripped when he pressed down too hard. He could also see that Damian’s sketches and drawings were beautiful. He could see the outline of the Manor, front paws of a dog in the making, the very distinct absence of hair only Alfred managed to make look stylish… he could see the desperate attempts of a child to recreate something dear to his heart.

Maybe he would find a way to connect to Damian after all.

* * *

Damian didn’t… understand Grayson. He really, truly didn’t.

Mother had told him of the fabled first imposter his Father had taken in, and she had called him capable but foolish, strong but oh, so weak. She had told him that he was one of the best acrobats the world had to offer, but also that acrobatics didn’t make you a  _ hero _ . She had told him of the love that Grayson had instilled in Father, but also of the hate that spewed between them.

She told him many great things, and many weird or disappointing ones, but never once did she tell him that Grayson was so much more… human.

Damian liked his new room; it had a better tactical advantage than the one he had been forced to occupy in the Manor and it was bigger than his room in the League. He used it to spy on the other occupants of the penthouse – Grayson,  Drake , and Pennyworth – who didn’t bother him when he wore the headphones Grayson had forced upon him as a distraction.

And Damian saw many things from his vantage point. He saw Pennyworth cry while cleaning, and even if such a show of weakness was despicable, Damian felt for the old man who had spent his entire life in the service of Father. Many great assassins would weep as well if Ra’s al Ghul were to die one day.

He saw Drake return one night a few days after he had left, using the shadow of the Batman on the streets as a distraction to return and grab his belongings. Damian just hoped that it meant he would never have to see Drake again. The disgraceful… Drake was no longer a boy, but Damian refused to call him a man. The disgraceful… human was nobody Damian wanted to be associated with. Too weak-willed, too fragile, too important…

That was the other thing Damian was forced to observe: How important Drake was to both Pennyworth and Grayson (How important Drake had been to Father – So much more important than Damian ever was). Grayson paced the living room area daily, his mobile phone in hand, dictating one message after the other to the device, never getting an answer. Pennyworth used the house telephone, but he was similarly unsuccessful in his attempts to reach that coward Drake.

Pathetic. Both of them.

His mother hadn’t called at all since he came to live in Gotham and Damian wasn’t worse off because of that. No, he would even say it strengthened him.

The only thing Damian could really do without was the boredom. Back at the League he had trained from sunrise till sundown, only stopping when his grandfather wanted to see him, or when he was allowed to partake in meals. And when the sun had vanished, Damian would be expected to finish his studies in religion, mathematics, world history, and English before he could go to bed.

At the League there was always something to do.

Now there was only boredom. He trained for a few hours’ downstairs in the bunker, and when it finally became afternoon, Grayson would come down too and go through the motions of simple training exercises with him. As if Damian needed something as easy and as simple as that. He had trained with great masters. He was one of the best.

He didn’t need to go through the steps of the sixth series of aikido again. But still, he did it, because Damian knew to never disrespect a teacher. He had learned from the best, after all, and that also applied when it came to manners.

Father had been terribly disappointed in him when Damian failed to greet the brats he had taken in with the necessary amount of respect. And now Father was dead. Damian didn’t have to make him proud anymore. Damian didn’t have to try to fulfill a role thrusted upon him anymore. Damian didn’t have to be someone he wasn’t anymore.

But he still  _ wanted _ to make his Father proud.

His Father would never get to see how nice Damian was to Grayson or how much restraint he showed when he met Drake. Father would never get to see Damian thank Pennyworth for his services or Grayson for his duty in keeping the Batman title alive long enough for Damian to grow old enough to take over.

Because Father was dead. And Damian had left his Mother behind for nothing. For a bunch of empty promises. Because he wanted to stay alive. Because no matter what Damian liked to tell himself, he was a coward too. A horrible, horrible coward.

But at least he would be Robin. At least he would be Batman one day.

The days had gotten a bit fuller since then, since Grayson promised to let him fight alongside the Bat. They trained together more often, their fights becoming more and more of a rhythm instead of a clash. It filled his days up a bit more, but still the boredom was deep rooted.

Pennyworth and Grayson wanted to send him to school, but Damian would sooner eat dirt than converse with those plebeians that polluted the American School System. And because his attempts to stop them from sending him to school had been successful, Pennyworth was now preparing a home-schooling schedule. Pah. As if Damian was in need of something like that.

But at least it would help to fill up his schedule a bit more. It would help with the boredom and maybe it would help with the feelings of abandonment that sneaked into Damian’s heart late at night.

Because Mother loved him, but she loved Grandfather more. Because Father hadn’t loved him at all. Because Grayson and Pennyworth loved Drake so much and barely liked Damian.

Because deep, deep down Damian knew that he was nobody’s priority. And that was okay. Damian could understand that many  _ things _ were more important than him, but he couldn’t see how another  _ person _ was capable of being somehow of a higher importance than Damian.

He could understand that Father would always put the mission first. That Father would always save Gotham before saving Damian. But the tender looks Father had graced Drake with, the laughter that had filled the Cave when it was just the two of them hadn’t made any sense at all. He couldn’t understand the deep emotions on his Father’s face whenever Todd did something dumb, or the love in his gaze when Cain danced or – really – just existed. He had no idea how to react to the image of Father hugging Grayson tightly or scolding him with a twinkle in his eyes.

Because Father never looked at Damian like that. Whenever Father had looked at him, Damian had seen the assessment in his gaze, the challenges Damian would have to overcome to earn his Father’s respect.

Damian didn’t know about love. He didn’t know if his Father would have learned to love him.

Maybe that was why Damian hadn’t really been sad when Father died. He had been unsettled, a deep worry overcoming him, but he hadn’t been sad. Not like Pennyworth or Grayson. Certainly not like Cain or Drake or Kent.

He had felt grief, that he was sure of, but it had been the grief of lost opportunities. He would never be loved by his Father. He would never have another chance at earning his respect. He would never know what it felt like to be wanted by one’s family.

That was the reason why he tried so hard now. Why he reined his temper in, trying not to be too much, not to be this person the world wanted to see in him. Because he would never be able to prove himself to his Father, but he would be able to show his respect for the dead in his actions.

Which was why he hadn’t said anything to Grayson tonight, even if the man was clearly preoccupied during training. Mother would have never let something like this happen; Damian could feel the phantom whiplashes that had accompanied his punishment for being absent-minded during katas or fight exercises before.

That was something else: No one ever punished him here. He kept waiting and waiting and waiting, but there was no cruelty greeting him at the end of a day, neither in words nor in actions. Father hadn’t done it either, but his yelling or – worse – his silence had felt like the most crushing of punishments Damian had ever received.

His Father had been a man of love, and respect, and humanity, and Damian had disappointed him.

He was disappointing Grayson as well, constantly it sometimes seemed during their training fights, but it didn’t feel like drowning when it was Grayson who looked at him in exasperation or grief. It just felt like failure and that was an emotion Damian was comfortable with. He had lived with it his whole life, after all.

But today something was different. Grayson had sneaked glances in Damian’s direction the entire time during training, and now during dinner, a salad with ham (ugh) and egg, Damian was ready to forgo any kind of composure he had, and just ask:

“Grayson, would you be so nice as to tell me what happened? The idiotic look on your face is infuriating!”

Grayson flinched as if Damian had committed a crime by telling him to keep his nose out of Damian’s business.

“I… sorry? It’s just, I left you a little something in the doorway to your room and was wondering if you saw it already?”

Grayson sounded unsure and Damian could live with that. A gift? Damian had told Grayson multiple times by now that his sympathies couldn’t be bought with sweet promises and presents. Still, curiosity quelled inside of him. Just what had Grayson attempted now to buy his loyalty?

“-tt-, I thought I made myself clear? No gifts. No presents. No nonsense. I came here to train and to become the Batman, not to play around like a common  _ child _ .”

Damian hadn’t seen it before, but now that the smile was slipping from Grayson’s face, he realized that Grayson had indeed been smiling. Maybe the first time since Father had died, Grayson had forced himself to lift the corners of his mouth. And Damian had ruined it. He had disappointed someone again.

Maybe Drake had been right when he hissed a “ _ You are sucking every breath of joy out of Dick, Brat _ ” in Damian’s ear. Maybe Damian was toxic, and it was his own fault that nobody loved him…

No. He had been trained by his Mother, he had been raised by his Grandfather, and both of them taught him that smiles and pleasantries were something for the common people. Being nice was something you engaged in when you were too weak to deal with the real world.

And when it came to things like this, Grayson was most certainly weak.

“Oh, yeah, just… give it a try, yeah? I think you could use it. Or even like it.”

Damian had his doubts, but he promised himself – and his Father – that he would no longer engage in unnecessary cruelty. Instead he nodded, focusing on the food in front of him. It would be so much easier to eat if Pennyworth could cook. If there were spices or flavor in the dishes, Damian might even be able to force himself to enjoy the meat.

But as it was? The salad was bland and the ham tasted like spoiled rubber on his tongue. Damian knew to never say ‘No’ to a meal, since you could never know when you would be allowed to eat next, but Pennyworth’s food sent shivers of disgust through his stomach more often than not.

Still, he ate. Because Damian was trying to be polite. He would keep his promises, especially those made to his dead Father, and that included treating the servants with respect. That meant no fighting or disagreeing with Pennyworth.

(And yes, Damian could see how high the social standing of Pennyworth was in the ‘family’. He had been a loyal servant for decades; he had every right to be respected even if Damian struggled with it sometimes. But he tried. Wasn’t that enough?)

The dinner moved on and Damian was finally allowed to get away from the stifling silence at the table. Grayson was looking over reports, so he had something to do while Pennyworth continued his vow of silence and punishment against Grayson, and Damian himself found it much easier to force down the food when there wasn’t an imbecile trying to talk to him. But, still, the meals were smothering and sad and made Damian want to disappear.

And he did. At least from the table.

Now, with the distance between himself and Grayson growing, Damian allowed himself that tiny bit of curiosity that had quelled inside him when Grayson told him of his present. It didn’t take long for him to reach his room and see the bag laying in front of it.

It was a shopping bag, made out of brown paper, reusable, and Damian didn’t even dare glance into it before the door of his room closed behind him.

Inside a multitude of things greeted him, none of them wrapped in frilly paper. No, it was just a bunch of stuff laying in a paper bag. Carefully Damian pulled one thing after the other out of the bag, his confusion and dread growing by the second.

Art supplies. Markers, pencils, oil paints, watercolors… thick drawing paper and sketchbooks… erasers and ink and ink pens… it was everything Damian had ever wanted. It was what he had dreamt about in Nanda Parbat when his teachers broke rulers on his fingers after finding him doodling during lessons. It was his secret, his soul, this one thing no one could take away from him. As long as Damian had a pen and paper, he would be able to draw. And as long as he was able to draw, he was capable of staying himself.

It had to be a test. Grayson was testing him. Asking him to choose.

Art was the one thing that the League had given to him – even if they later tried to take it away again – that had filled Damian with hope and not with despair. Ravi had shown him the beauty in the world, had shown him the wonders beyond the walls of their base, and Damian had paid Ravi back by making his only ally lose his eyes.

Art was Damian’s secret because it had already cost Ravi too much, because as long as it was only his, no one else could touch the truths Damian liked to hide in it.

Hot tears burned behind Damian’s eyelids. He would have counted on something like this from his Father, definitely from his Mother, but Grayson? Something so cruel seemed unbecoming of the weak man that currently upheld Batman’s mantle.

He was angry when he left his room again, Grayson still sitting at the table, a coffee in front of him instead of food. He looked up when he heard Damian’s angry footsteps stopping in front of him, and Damian could see the confusion behind Grayson’s tired blue eyes:

“Is something wrong, Damian?”

“Is something wrong? You dare to tell me that I am welcome in your home, you dare to make me feel safe and placid, only to test me like this?”

Anger. Damian had to remind himself to stay angry. It didn’t matter that this penthouse apartment was both more welcoming and warmer than the Manor and the League had ever been. It didn’t matter that Damian had started to let his guard down, to relax while watching the proceedings of the house. It didn’t matter that he didn’t have to look over his shoulder out of fear every moment of every day just to stay alive anymore. It didn’t matter that Damian had played with the idea of actually liking it here…

Because Grayson had just tested him. Grayson had just dared to use the one thing, Damian loved and allowed himself to enjoy, against him.

Sometimes it felt as if the art Damian produced when nobody was looking was the only thing that he actually liked about himself. He liked the silence, and the progress, and the calm that filled him up when his pen was scraping over paper, liked the smell of ink being used to create.

He liked himself when he could spill the art that filled his veins, which is why he hated that it was used against him.

“What? Damian, I don’t know what you are talking about?”

“This!”

Damian had taken the art supplies with him and now he threw them onto the table, satisfied with the mess they made when they crashed into Grayson’s cup of coffee.

“The art supplies? Damian… I?”

“You… you absolute bastard! You… you used this against me… I… You!”

Damian was just so angry. Words didn’t make any sense anymore, his head a jumble of English, Arabic, Persian, and Urdu. He wanted for Grayson to apologize, for this to not have happened, for the art supplies to be real. He wanted the safety back, that he had thought possible staying in this apartment with Grayson and Pennyworth.

“Damian! Calm down!”

“No!”

“What is going on?”

Pennyworth had joined the scene, probably lured into the dining area by the sound of their raised voices like a gossip vulture.

“Grayson tested me using something completely inappropriate!”

Damian gestured to the art supplies that were now colored a slight brown from the coffee they were bathing in.

“Tested how?”

“Yeah, I would really like to know that as well.”

It was hard to not scoff at the clueless look on Grayson’s face. As if the man didn’t know what he had done. As if Damian didn’t know that even the Batman worked on tests and challenges to figure out if his pupils were worth the trouble. But if they wanted him to explain their own ploy, Damian would do it:

“The art supplies. You figured out that I… like art and then you decided to use it against me. You were going to take my girly drawings as proof that I am unfit for the mantle of Robin and… and then you would have a reason to throw me out.”

“Oh, Damian…”

Why did Grayson sound so utterly sad? Had Damian been right? Had this been the final straw that allowed Grayson and Pennyworth to send him away and get Drake back?

Grayson was kneeling down in front of him now, his head slightly raised, so he could look Damian in the eyes, when he spoke:

“I gave you the art supplies because I saw you drawing, and I thought you might enjoy them. I remembered how much I liked painting and coloring when I was younger, even if I didn’t have your talent. There is nothing bad about liking ‘girly’ things.  It is what you want it to be, and that's all it has to be. If you like art then it's just 'Damian's art, not 'girly' or 'boyish', just 'Damian'”

He… he didn’t understand. Damian was so lost that he didn’t even flinch when Grayson put his hands on his shoulders and squeezed them. Pennyworth had come closer as well, his presence steady behind him.

“It… I would never use something you like against you. I would even hope that I am never in a situation where I have to use anything against you ever. We are Batman and Robin now, and Batman and Robin always work together. And that means no ill intentioned tricks or traps.”

“So… it wasn’t a test?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Now, Damian wasn’t a crier, really. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had cried. Maybe when he was eight and sent on his Year of Blood? Maybe when his Mother had deemed him safer in the hands of the Batman than in her own?

But, now, he cried. The relief that washed over his body at Grayson’s promise, that he wouldn’t test him, that him making art wouldn’t end in broken pens and fingers, that he wouldn’t be sent away yet again, was so great his tears started to flow.

It was embarrassing. It was a disgrace. It was horrible and cowardly and wimpy and… and… freeing.

Damian didn’t know when he had last cried, but he was crying now. And he didn’t fight the embrace of Grayson who pulled him into a hug nor the reassuring hand from Pennyworth on his shoulder. He just cried and for the first time in maybe his entire life, he wasn’t afraid to die while doing so.

“Shh, it’s okay. And tomorrow we’ll go and buy you a new set of art supplies, I’m afraid these have a few stains. And you can choose any one you want, okay?”

Damian only nodded, a part of him still waiting for a punishment, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Well, when Master Damian has calmed down, he can help me clean up the table, and then the three of us are going to enjoy a piece of cake. By God, do we all need it.”

Pennyworth’s voice was warm when he spoke, grandfatherly instead of broken. Damian liked this voice better than the one he usually heard when he did something wrong. It felt like how home was always described in those dumb American children’s books. It felt nice.

And cleaning the table felt like a beginning.

Things changed after that. Robin came to fly alongside Batman again, and Damian learned that partnership could mean so much more than servitude and bloodshed. They fought enemies together, once even the second boy Father had dared to adopt, and Gotham was none the wiser regarding the fact that Batman was no longer Father, but Grayson.

Damian had been shocked when he was harmed in the field for the first time, stumbling and falling after a lowlife had managed to stab him. Because Batman had unleashed a fury Damian had only known his Grandfather to possess. He knew, of course, by then that Grayson was one of the best fighters to ever grace the earth – not only trained by Batman, but by that rascal Deathstroke as well – but he hadn’t known him to be aggressive, to be cruel.

But Damian learned. He learned that Grayson wasn’t cruel, but only by choice. He learned that others laughed about him, called him a fool, but only until Grayson proved them wrong by excelling. Damian learned that Grayson wasn’t The Batman, but he was  _ His  _ Batman. And that was enough.

His daily routine changed as well over the months that followed his utterly embarrassing breakdown, brought on by stress and worry and other unworthy emotions. For one, their meals changed after Damian told Pennyworth of his distaste of meat, and Grayson offered to learn how to cook some traditional Pakistani foods. Pennyworth started talking to Grayson again, and together they created some Romani dishes as well.

Damian had forgotten how good food could taste.

Food started being fun. It reminded Damian of the few times he had been allowed outside of the compound with his Mother, the dishes they would try and the explosion of spices in his mouth when he found something he liked.

Most of the time Pennyworth’s cooking was still bland, but Damian could find solace in the Biryani Grayson cooked or the Jalebia Alfred created in his kitchen.

But that was not all that changed: Damian started to attend online classes. At first Pennyworth had tried to homeschool him, but all attempts had ended in disaster, in screaming from Damian, and slammed doors from Pennyworth. Damian feared that he reminded Pennyworth too much of Father when he was angry – or when he was failing to understand mathematics.

But with Damian battling online High School and Pennyworth back to shopping for groceries after months of cereal for breakfast, peace had settled in the nooks and cracks of the penthouse.

Damian still preferred the safety of his room over the open expanse of the living area, but sometimes – when he was exceptionally relaxed – he would grace Grayson with his presence. The man tried to be home as often as possible – some weird notion about spending time with Damian – and he often worked on official WE business on the kitchen table while Damian either learned or drew.

It was still weird to draw out in the open, to show the world that he partook in such a shameful hobby, but Damian couldn’t hide the small smiles that broke free whenever Grayson or Pennyworth noted how good his drawings were. It was almost worth the feeling of dread that pooled in his stomach whenever he unpacked his drawing kit and got to work.

(Only Ravi and Mother had been allowed to see his drawings before)

What was also worth it were the constant reminders of Grayson how proud he was of Damian.

Even though no surge of pride would make Damian enjoy evenings like this.

They were at an official Wayne Enterprise function that Grayson was forced to attend due to his status as the WE figurehead, and Damian was brought along as the last living Wayne.

Damian hated it. He hated the stuffy suit he was forced to wear (no maneuverability), the shrill laughter of the plebeians around him, the tasteless food that only got served in too small portions, and what he hated most of all, was the fact that people wanted to  _ talk _ to him. Damian did his best to glower and frown to dissuade people from coming close, but even if no one was talking to him, he still heard them.

He heard the unsavory comments about Grayson’s behind or the fact that people liked to call him ‘exotic’ and ‘surprisingly cultivated’. He heard their laughter at Grayson’s bad jokes and saw the smiles they shared when Grayson turned around to bemuse someone else. He hated it. Damian hated how they looked at this man, at his Batman, and laughed because he didn’t look like them. He hated how they talked about Grayson, not caring that the man did everything in his power to make them feel welcome.

He hated it because he knew Grayson had lived in this world ever since Father had taken pity on him.

He hated it because he knew they talked about him the same way as soon as he vanished from their view.

Grayson had the tendency to vanish as soon as Damian found him again, meeting people he knew, greeting people that he didn’t. And Damian, who had finally thought to have found his partner, was once again alone.

The Damian he had been a few months ago – maybe only a few weeks – would have thought of this as a test, as a trial Grayson put in his way to prove that Damian wasn’t capable of fulfilling his role as the Wayne Heir, making him unfit for Robin as well. But he knew better now. He knew that Grayson was just busy, that he didn’t like functions like this either, and tended to disappear in the role he was playing.

Damian just wished he was capable of something like that, too.

Instead he was forced to trail behind Grayson’s form like some puppy, lost and unable to survive on his own. But it was better than constantly pinched cheeks or fake compliments regarding his ‘cleaned-up’ state. Damian would love to tell these people that he hadn’t been dirty even once in his life.

But that would probably be considered impolite and Damian tried to adhere to the unreasonable rules Gotham’s High Society set. He had promised Grayson after all that he would behave. And, of course, he would. He was an al Ghul. A Wayne. He was born for this.

Which was why he didn’t bite the hand of the lady currently patting his cheek.

“Aren’t you a cutie! You look so much like your dad!”

No, he didn’t. Damian knew that, but he hated the way people tended to remind him of the fact. As if it would come true if they only said it often enough. Damian had tried that method, it didn’t work.

“Really? I think I rather take after my Mother.”

His voice was pinched and forced, but it was the best Damian could do after an evening of unsolicited comments and itching backhanded compliments.

“Oh, sure you do. You definitely don’t share this wonderful shade of green with your dad, that is true. But the rest?”

She laughed when she gestured to his eyes, to indicate just what kind of green she meant. And she was right, per say, Father had had pale grey eyes, while his Mother’s were a brilliant green, but something told Damian that that wasn’t what she was referring to.

“I am not sure I understand…”

“Oh, I mean your  _ color _ , you know, your  _ skin tone. _ That has the Grayson boy written all over it.”

No. She didn’t… But the secretive expression on her face told Damian all he had to know: Yes, she thought he was the illegitimate son of Grayson, posing as the son of Bruce Wayne. And if she thought it - Damian didn’t even know her name – then most of the people in the room probably thought the same.

They looked at him, saw the skin he had always been proud of because it was the skin of his Mother, the legacy of his Grandfather, and couldn’t comprehend that his father could have been one of their own. That Bruce Wayne would ever have fathered a child that looked like Damian. No, the Romani ward of Bruce Wayne had to be the one who… who produced Damian. And who wasn’t even man enough to claim him. It…

Damian was so angry. He could feel the ants crawling up the inside of his body, could feel the acid bubbling in his stomach, and excused himself.

He wouldn’t start drama on a function important to his Father’s business and Grayson. He wouldn’t. No matter how much he wanted to.

Instead he ran, searching for a balcony or a window, something to let him breathe as the world came crashing down once again.

They thought he was Grayson’s. They didn’t think his position as the Blood Son was real, they thought he was an imposter, a fake, a disgrace. And Grayson let them think that. No. The man probably didn’t even know what kind of rumors were spread about him. He probably didn’t know that the people he was currently flirting with were thinking of him as a dirty man-whore who got a girl pregnant when he was still a boy.

What did it say about the people that they thought Grayson had produced a kid at 14? What did it say about the Gotham Society, that they probably only considered that because Damian was brown, and so was Grayson?

Damian wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. He knew that the resemblance to his Father was in the small things, the stuff that got easily overlooked, but he wished he would be allowed to be his Father’s son at least. He knew he had Father’s prominent forehead, his big ears, and the small gap in his tooth. He knew he would share his Father’s height one day, and his muscle contribution would be more similar to his Father than to his Mother as well. Damian  _ was _ his Father’s son, but people didn’t see it, lied unconvincingly about it, or told him that he was the son of another.

Damian hated Gotham, hated how it smelled, how it worked, how it treated him. Hated that it had taken his Father before Damian had a chance to really become his son. Hated that they didn’t even let him be that.

Grayson found him like that, curled up under one of the giant curtains decorating the windows on the east side of the ballroom. It felt as if Damian had sat there for ages, just staring, trying to ignore the need to cry. He was stronger than this. He was Damian al Ghul Wayne and he would be proud of his heritage.

“Damian? Why are you hiding down there?”

Grayson sounded concerned, and when he crouched down in front of him, Damian could see the worry in his face again. It annoyed him how invested in his life Grayson was, how the man always tried to be ‘there for him’. Bullshit.

But there was no one else that cared. There was only Grayson and his stupid grins and horrible jokes. There was only Grayson should Damian ever need someone else. Which he didn’t. But in that case…

“Nothing. But can we go now?”

The tilt to Grayson’s head spoke of the many questions Grayson was too tactful to ask. Instead the man sat down next to Damian, draping the curtain back over Damian and himself, hiding them away rather unsuccessfully considering that Grayson’s legs were sticking out from underneath.

“Sure. I already called Alfred, but he’s only going to be here in half an hour so you might as well tell me what is bothering you. We’re in a rather private area right now, after all.”

Even without being able to see Grayson’s face Damian knew that there was a dumb grin on it, probably paired with wiggling eyebrows. It was hard to believe sometimes that Grayson had somehow managed to acquire Damian’s respect at all.

“There is nothing wrong, Grayson, and I would love for you to leave me alone with this.”

The curtain bathed them in darkness, so Damian couldn’t see how Grayson reacted, but he could feel him shrug.

“Okay. But can I whine a little?”

“Whatever”

“Great. Because I hate it. God, if one more person touches my ass, I’m not gonna be able to control myself anymore. I am  _ this _ close to judo flipping someone _. This _ close. Argh! And fucking Melanie Miranda? She asked me if it was true what they said about Roma and their sex prowess. I…”

Grayson let out a deep sigh, his head hitting the wall behind them. So, Grayson knew. He knew what they said about him and he attended anyway. He knew how racist, and old fashioned, and white these guys were, and yet he always came back.

“Why?”

“Huh?”

“Why do you do this to yourself? They don’t deserve you. You are the Batman; you are a hero, but all they do is spread rumors and make hurtful comments about you.”

Damian didn’t struggle when one of Grayson’s arms sneaked around him, crushing him in a one-sided hug.

“I don’t know. Maybe because I need to be here as the head of WE, even if it’s a strictly symbolic position? Or because sometimes the only thing you can do is get out there and stare people in the face. Sometimes the only think Dick Grayson can do to fight the racism of the Gotham Upper Class is to always show up and be himself.”

“I… I am not sure, I understand.”

“It’s… I can’t really explain it, because it sucks. It really, utterly does and I feel like dying after some of these events, but a part of me believes that the biggest fuck you I can send in their direction is being there anyways; showing my face; showing that their hate isn’t going to stop me.”

“Hn”

Silence fell over them, the sounds of the ball distant through the barrier of the curtain.

Damian didn’t really understand why it was his job to be strong and smile when other people made horrible comments about him. He didn’t. His Mother would have never let someone talk like that about her. Grandfather neither. But at the same time Damian was aware that the Gotham High Society was different compared to the League, that both were deadly, but in very different ways.

It was Grayson who spoke next, his voice silent and soft, a tone he only had when he talked about Father:

“I… back when I was small, your age approximately, Bruce always did his best to shield me from it. He uninvited guests who made rude comments, and stopped supporting stuff, if he thought they were racist. The problem was that might have quelled some of the hate, but it strengthened other rumors.”

“What rumors?”

“The people Bruce banned from his galas were mad, and they thought some of their comments had hit too close to home, that they had to be true, so they continued spreading them, until almost everyone believed them.”

“What rumors, Grayson?”

Grayson appeared to be in a trance, his voice lost, his face turned upwards. It was scary, even if Damian tried to push down the thought. He wouldn’t be this easily scared. He had fought the Scarecrow without problems, he could deal with Grayson getting lost in his own head.

“Oh? The rumor that Bruce had only taken me in because I was a little boy. That I was his… toy. His boy toy, if you will.”

“That is utterly disgusting!”

Hot-white rage surged through Damian’s body. He wanted to travel through time to slay every person contributing in the slander of his Father and Grayson.

“Yeah, it is. Those words followed me for a long time, only really dying down after I moved away, but sometimes I ask myself if they would have been this bad if Bruce hadn’t tried to stand up for me. Which is a bullshit thought… he wanted to protect me, but still…”

Grayson had come to his hide-out to cheer Damian up, but all it achieved was for Grayson to sadly stare into the void, and for Damian to feel the bubbly need to share his own discovery:

“They think I am your son. They don’t believe that Father is, well, my father.”

This declaration returned Grayson to the present, his arm around Damian’s shoulder tightening:

“What?”

“They think I am your son. That Father lied to protect you, and that we are now only keeping the farce up for appearances.”

Even without the ability to see Grayson’s face Damian knew that the man was staring at him.

“Some old wrench told me how much I look like you. Her smile told me everything else I needed to know.”

“I’m sorry, Dami. I mean, we look nothing alike. Our eyes are different, my jaw is much prettier than yours, I have cheekbones, and normal ears, and you have a tooth gap.”

Damian knew that Grayson’s words were just trying to comfort him, but it didn’t work. The restlessness and pain that had overcome him hearing those awful words the lady had said, just wouldn’t go away.

“Nobody here thinks I could be my Father’s son.”

“Oh, no, they do think that alright. They see your snotty nose and are immediately reminded of Bruce, age nine, making the girl preparing the scrimp cry. They see his greatness in you. But they are also racist old fucks, who are afraid of change. And even more afraid of greatness. And you, little one, are great.”

Grayson pulled Damian closer, basically crushing him against his suit-clad chest. It wasn’t comfortable by any means, it was rather horrid actually, but Damian had never felt this safe, this protected.

“And if they don’t stop being fucking assholes to you – excuse my language – then we’re not going to go to these things anymore. We’re gonna create our own party, where only people who have proven themselves to be decent are going to be invited. Who cares what WE said? I’m not gonna let you get eaten by the sharks of Gotham.”

“But what if they still spread the rumors? What if they do the same thing, they did to you and Father?”

“Then we take care of it when that bridge burns. Or sue for slander. But I think I would be much happier knowing you weren’t hiding away because of the things old people said, because you were hurt.”

“I wasn’t hurt. I was… discomforted, not hurt.”

“Of course you weren’t”

The spark had returned to Grayson’s voice and Damian felt a small weight lift from his chest. It felt good to be heard. It felt good to know that at least one person had your back. Even if the rest still burned. Even if it was painful to know that most people didn’t see him as the person he was. That they only saw what they wanted to see. That they only said what they wanted to be true.

“And now let’s go. Alfred is waiting for us.”

Grayson detangled himself from Damian, standing up in one fluid motion. The light shed on their corner by the moving curtain, was enough to illuminate the hand Grayson offered him, to help him up.

“Thank you… Richard.”

Maybe it was time for a bit of informality. A bit of laxness. The delighted grin on Grayson’s face, however, almost made Damian regret what he had just offered.

“Let’s go, Dami.”

“No.”

“Lil’D?”

“Horrible”

“Little One”

“I will decapitate you.”

“Dottie?”

“What even?”

“Da-“

They were moving through the ballroom, nearing the foyer when Grayson’s phone rang, his hand immediately reaching for the device. Damian was too short to see who called, but Grayson didn’t hesitate to press accept.

There was a moment of silence, then hushed voices, and finally Grayson who spoke:

“Where? Okay, we’ll be there. Thank you so much for calling. No… I’m coming as fast as possible. Bye.”

Grayson’s face had lost all its color in the last few seconds, his mouth a thin line when he turned around to Damian:

“Change of plans. Tim got stabbed. He is in Baghdad. We need to get there now.”

The only thing Damian could do was run after Grayson when he left the building to find Pennyworth. It was the only thing he could ever do: following behind.

* * *

_ There were so many things going on, so many voices telling him things. _

__

_ There was Ra’s and his “Little Detective, I think you might have gone too far”. _

_ There was Tam’s “Timothy Drake-Wayne! I want an explanation! Now!”. _

__

_ “You are safe now.” – that was Cass, right? It had to be Cass. _

_ Ra’s again: “He is dead. You are going to have to face that. He is really, truly dead.” _

__

_ “Shh, it’s gonna be alright.” – his mom? No… that didn’t make any sense. _

_ “Oh God. Big Bird. I am so, so sorry. Timmy…” – Bruce? No? Dick? But why? _

_ And Ra’s again and again: _

_ “He is dead.” _

_ “Batman is dead” _

_ “Bruce Wayne IS **DEAD**!” _

Tim returned to consciousness through a trial of nightmares and voices, through a sea of dark thoughts pulling him down. Tim returned to consciousness and really wished he didn’t.

Everything was way too glaring when he pried his eyes open, the hospital room not a surprise but a disappointment. Every part of his body felt weak and far away, something Tim knew could only be achieved by the good stuff. The stuff that made you numb to anything and everything.

Tim wanted to be numb right now. He wanted to ignore the burning sensation starting up on the side of his stomach, to ignore the thoughts that dared to breach his consciousness. He just wanted to sink under again and to maybe never wake up.

“You’re awake.”

Oh, someone was in the room with him. It felt monumental to glance sideways, to see Cass sitting on the chair next to his hospital bed. She was in civilian clothing, a dark hoodie hiding her expression.

“Hngh?”

“Good. You had everyone worried.”

Tim was only capable of blinking slowly while Cass talked, her words washing over him, without his brain trying to understand. He was too tired for this. Too full of drugs and guilt. He just wanted to sleep. Forever.

“Dick and Alfred were worried for you. Especially. I was worried, too.”

Something in that sentence sounded wrong, but Tim could feel himself drift off again, no longer caring for whatever Cass had to say. Sleep was more important. Silence was more important.

“I will get them. Wait.”

Tim didn’t.

When he returned to wakefulness the next time, his thoughts were clearer, opening his eyes less of a battle. Tim didn’t like it. It meant that the thoughts in his head became clearer too, that he would have to think again.

He really, really didn’t like that.

But nothing in the universe ever cared if Timothy Drake-Wayne wanted something or not. Instead, he was given the left-overs nobody else wanted, the loss and pain and hurt, and was told to deal with it.

The light in the room was still – or again? – too bright when Tim opened his eyes. He couldn’t stop a groan from escaping, the light too much for his sensitive retinas. He didn’t want to do this. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to be swallowed by his blanket, be drowned by his pillow, be lost at sea in his giant bed, but he didn’t want to be awake.

“Tim? Timmy?”

Bruce?

No. It felt like a poker being stuck inside his heart, first fiery hot, then ice cold. It wasn’t Bruce. It couldn’t be Bruce. Because Bruce was dead. Because Tim had failed. Because he hadn’t been good enough. Because he didn’t do enough… Because…

It wasn’t Bruce, it was Dick. Whatever he was doing here, Tim wanted him gone.

“Hn”

His throat was burning, dry as a desert, and it destroyed his attempt at sending Dick away, only allowing him to turn his head slightly. The glance he caught of his big brother sent a shiver down his spine.

He looked like shit. Dick was pale and drawn, the shadows under his eyes darker than only one hospital visit could account for. Tim could see the months of responsibility slowly poisoning Dick.

Tim was pretty sure he didn’t look any better either.

“Oh, sorry, of course. Water.”

Dick’s voice was forcefully cheerful and that was the moment it clicked for Tim: Dick had been worried. Dick had been worried because whatever happened that had ended with Tim in a hospital had been worse than Tim thought it was.

Tim tried to gather himself while he sipped the lukewarm water, tried to find thoughts and words that didn’t hurt, but the only positive thing he could find within himself, was the soothing feeling of water sliding down his parched throat.

“Hm…”

He closed his eyes again, after Dick had taken the water cup away, in the hopes of maybe finding sleep, of maybe keeping Dick from starting a conversation. Of wanting to talk. Right now, Tim was still keeping it together. Right now, Tim was still Tim, and not a puddle of tears and fears and pain on the ground, but he didn’t know how long that would work if Dick asked him a question. If Tim was forced to admit that… that… no.

“Tim? Can you please look at me? I know you’re awake. You were always really shit at pretending to be asleep.”

Yeah, Tim remembered that. He forced his eyes open, unshed tears already blurring his vision even though nothing had happened yet. Even though his heart hadn’t been broken yet. Even though his execution hadn’t taken place yet.

“Do you remember when I was fifteen and you taught me how to drive stick, Dick?”

Tim’s voice was silent. A rasp that came from a long time spent sleeping and a throat that had been screamed raw one too many times.

“Yeah, you played Greenday the entire time we circled the parking lot. Said something about having to suffer through my teaching style, so you should be allowed to choose the music. According to you I only listened to Dad Rock.”

“You still do.”

Tim knew he wasn’t imagining the nostalgia in Dick’s tone; he knew that some part of Dick had loved these times too. That it wasn’t just Tim that had enjoyed their time spent together.

“Why are you asking about this, Tim?”

It was impossible to continue looking at Dick, to see his big brother and not break. It was impossible for Tim not to cry right here and now, with the concern that greeted him whenever he glanced into Dick’s direction. Tim couldn’t do it. Instead, he chose to stare at the ceiling, to count the tiles until his brain shut up. Until he could breathe again.

“I miss it. I miss it so, so much, Dick. Sometimes I just want to ask a Flash to take me back to that year, that one year I was happy. Do you get that? Don’t you want that too? To feel happy again?”

Wow, Tim had really done it, didn’t he? He had said two sentences and tears were running down his face. Sobs racked his body and it hurt – both physical and mentally. There was a voice in his head telling him to calm down, some part of him that begged him to stop crying, to pick himself up again, but Tim was too weak. Tim was falling apart.

“It’s okay, Tim, it’s okay…”

Dick sounded so tired, so old, nothing like the young man that had parked in front of Tim’s house in a Mercedes from Bruce’s garage, grinned at him and asked him if he wanted to learn how to drive. Dick sounded like Bruce had after he lost Jason, sad and hurt and tired.

“It’s not, though, it is really, really not…”

“Please, Tim… Timmy…”

“Bruce is dead, Dick. He is dead.”

Bruce Wayne was dead. Tim’s dad was dead. Again. And hadn’t he lost enough? Hadn’t it been enough to stand by as Steph died? And Kon? And Bart? His dad? As Cissie stopped talking to him? As everything broke apart.

Hadn’t he suffered enough? What else was Tim Drake-Wayne supposed to survive before it was finally, finally enough?

Bruce was dead. His second dad had died, and Tim had done everything to change that fact. He had done everything to change the world, to twist the timeline, to break a hole into the universe just to bring him back. But it didn’t work. Tim wasn’t enough. Was never enough.

Because Bruce Wayne was dead and would never come back.

There was no oxygen entering his bloodstream anymore, every breath spent on crying, every gasp of air drowned by a sob. Tim didn’t want to be here. He cursed the fact that he had woken up at all.

Why did he get to survive if everyone else had died? Why was he the one allowed to live if the fucking Batman died for real?

“Tim! Please, Timmers, calm down. I need you to calm down, Timmy. Please…”

Dick sounded distant, the room in front of Tim’s eyes blurring, moving away. A door crashed open and Tim was too tired to understand the Arabic yelling that started up. He let the darkness take him. It was better than the panic. It was better than the grief.

Tim was tired of waking up again.

It was Alfred sitting by his bedside this time. Tim had missed him, had missed the sour cherry scones and the quiet concern of a person who truly loved you. Alfred looked older than when Tim had left, as if his absence had added years to the butler’s face. He was reading, his gaze not focused on Tim but on the book in his lap.

He felt tired, his bones shifting underneath this skin bag called Tim. He just wanted this to be over with.

“What happened?”

Alfred looked up, but instead of surprise there was only cold acceptance in his gaze. Alfred had known. Or course. Nothing ever truly tricked the butler. Nothing ever truly happened without Alfred knowing.

“You mean earlier today, or in general, Master Tim?”

He had missed this British voice and the judgment that was no judgement but love. He had missed it so, so badly.

“Both”

“Well, in general: You vanished for a good six months, only to reappear in a hospital with a stab wound to your stomach and a bad infection. They needed to remove your spleen, which made sure you almost died from the sepsis. When we got the call from Miss Cassandra, nobody knew if you would survive.”

Ah, Tim felt the faint memory of fighting assassins from the League of Assassins in a hotel room come back to him. He didn’t know how long he’d been in the hospital or what day it was, but it felt as if that had been ages ago. It didn’t feel real.

“And earlier today your fever finally broke. Dick was with you when you woke up, though I fear his presence was the reason for your panic attack.”

Tim remembered that. Or he mostly remembered it. It was a bit hazy, but he could still feel the intense pressure on his chest, the sadness, the loss. He could still feel his grief and the pain at knowing that whatever he and Dick had once shared no longer was.

“Ah.”

“How are you feeling, my boy?”

“Numb.”

Alfred chuckled at that, always polite, always Alfred.

“They’ve got you on the strong stuff. Enjoy it while you can.”

Tim would. Or he would try. Making any promises beyond that was a bit hard currently. Oh, who was he kidding, everything was a bit hard right now. He had reached the end of his lane, the end of his rope, and Tim didn’t know what came next.

What did you do if your dad was dead? What did you do if the rest of the world had accepted that six months ago? What did you do if you were the only one still grappling with the fact?

“Alf…?”

“Yes?”

“Bruce is dead.”

“I know, my boy, I know.”

“What do I do now?”

“You do what the rest of us try to do as well: Move forward one day at a time.”

Tim looked at Alfred, and he could see how much the man was hurting, how much Alfred was still struggling. Tim didn’t want to do this. He wanted to sleep and wait and wake up to a world that was still okay, to a world in which Tim could be happy. A world in which Tim wasn’t alone.

“And does it work? Does it get better?”

“It hurts. I think it will always hurt, my boy, but you will also learn to live again, to love again.”

“Did you?”

“I am trying. Just as Master Dick is trying, or Master Damian. Or Miss Cassandra. We wake up and we get up and we do what we manage to do and we say what we manage to say, and sometimes that includes shedding tears on the grave of your son and other times you bake a cake and celebrate life instead.”

“Huh”

“Healing isn’t a straight road, Timothy, and you know it. There are ups and downs, highs and lows – if I may say so myself – and it is hard. Some say healing is the hardest thing they ever did in their lives. But it is our duty to try, and to help.”

Tim couldn’t even imagine what Alfred had survived already, couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to lose the Wayne’s, Jason, and now Bruce. Alfred had lost his son, and here he was telling Tim that healing was worth it. That Tim was worth it.

“I missed you, Alf. I missed you so, so much”

“I missed you too, my boy, terribly so.”

Crying this time didn’t feel like losing, it felt like freedom. It felt like a breath of fresh air with Alfred by his side, shedding tears of relief.

Days later Tim saw Dick sitting at his bedside again, a grey sheen on his face, and a smile that was more of a grimace than an actual smile.

Tim was supposed to be discharged tomorrow, even if the doctor telling them had seemed anything but happy with that decision. Tim guessed that Dick had done what Bruce liked to do: Let some money change hands. But it was alright with him. He wanted to leave this hospital behind and vanish again. Maybe to be never found at all.

But judging by the look on Dick’s face that wouldn’t be the case. Well, damn.

“We need to talk, Timmy.”

“Do we?”

“Yeah…”

Tim wasn’t in the mood for some heart to heart or some dumb brotherly bonding. No, that was his past. The Tim of the last few months had stopped being the boy that hero-worshipped Dick Grayson.

“What if I don’t want to?”

“Well, then I’ll have to send Cass and Alfred in here and you can’t yell at them, it’s illegal. But you can yell at me, all you want. God knows I deserve it.”

This was Tim’s pity-party and Dick was not allowed to make himself a pity-party cake.

“Shut up, Dick.”

But Dick didn’t shut up. Tim had feared something like this, had known that a confrontation was coming the moment Dick had opened the door to the hospital room minutes earlier.

And, of course, Tim knew that Dick wouldn’t throw him out of the family, or whatever the fuck was left of it, but he still remembered their last conversation, their last fight. He didn’t want to repeat that. He wasn’t strong enough for something like that.

“I don’t think I will, Timmy, because if I do, I can’t tell you how absolutely sorry I am for what I said back then. For those horrid things I threw in your face.”

“Why? You were right, weren’t you? Bruce is dead, and I am batshit crazy.”

“You’re not, though. You are seventeen, and lonely, and traumatized, and you needed me to be there for you, instead of fighting you. And I am so utterly ashamed that I wasn’t that person for you. That I lost my temper and that you suffered for it.”

“Well, thanks for reminding me.”

Okay, Tim just wasn’t in the mood for this. He didn’t want any of this. He wanted his dad back and nothing else. Nothing that Dick could say would turn back time, or right the wrongs that had happened between them. All that was left of the relationship they once had were Tim’s hurt feelings and Dick’s guilt; and the puppy dog eyes that should look ridiculous on the face of a 25-year-old man instead of endearing.

“Oh, cut it out.”

“Talk to me, Timmy.”

“What do you want?”

“I… I want to know how you feel. I think that would be a good start.”

Tim didn’t even try to stop the dry chuckle that escaped him at that notion. Dick wanted to know how Tim felt? Oh, Tim could give him that:

“How do I feel? Well, I feel numb and sad and angry, because everyone I love is either an asshole or dead. I feel like an inky black hole lives inside of me and is threatening to swallow me whole every minute now. I was so desperate for Bruce to be alive, because I needed something to look forward to, something that made it worth it to survive, and now that I know for sure that he isn’t coming back – and believe me I thought about using a Pit – I honestly don’t know why I am still alive at all.”

Dick’s eyes were so utterly devastated, Tim almost felt bad for answering his question so honestly. But just almost. Tim had needed Dick, and Dick hadn’t been there. It was just fair that Dick reaped what he sowed. Still, Tim had to avert his eyes, when he saw how tears spilled down Dick’s cheeks, the man in question not making a sound besides taking a deep breath.

There was silence for a moment, Tim staring at his hands, Dick staring at him, before his big brother spoke again:

“Fuck, Timmy. I love you, you know that, right? And that doesn’t make it okay, but I love you. And I wasn’t strong enough to allow myself to hope that Bruce was alive. I would have broken apart right then and there, and nobody would have been able to build me back up… I am so sorry, Tim, I really am.”

Tim didn’t grace him with an answer, instead he watched as his own tears dripped onto his hands, keeping his focus on the wet spots appearing on the blanket underneath his arms.

“And I hope one day you’ll be able to forgive me for my lapse of judgement, but until then I have a proposition for you: Come back with Alfred and I and… and relax at the penthouse for a bit. Get your feet back on the ground. Allow yourself to heal where Alfred and I can watch over you. Let us help you. Please.”

“What if I say no?”

“Then either Cass is going to lock you up in her apartment, or I’ll find a rehabilitation center to help you.”

“So, it’s not really a choice at all, is it?”

The bitterness threatened to swallow Tim. After Dick’s apology he had almost thought his brother understood, he had almost thought that Dick knew what it felt like inside of Tim, but, no, Tim was still just the crazy one.

“Tim, I need you to understand something: I am your legal guardian now. More importantly: I am your big brother and I love you so, so much. I need to make sure you are okay. You basically just told me that you’re suicidal and… and if I did nothing and something happened to you, I would never forgive myself. And neither would Alfred. Or Cass. It is my obligation to help you, and it is one I don’t mind carrying along with me.”

Tim wanted to stay mad, wanted the darkness inside to swallow him whole, but… but what if Dick cared? What if he was allowed to feel better than this? What if there was something like…  _ hope _ ?

“And what about the Brat?”

“He’s mellowed out a whole lot since the last time you saw him.”

There was fondness in Dick’s voice, and when Tim dared to glance in his direction there was a smile gracing his lips. Dick liked the Brat. Dick cared for this little beast, this little, murderous bastard. Maybe that would mean that Dick would care for him too?

“Okay…”

“Hm?”

“Okay. I’ll try staying at the penthouse. But only if you keep Damian as far away from me as possible. And if I get to choose the movies on movie night.”

Dick grinned at him, his eyes alight with something Tim hadn’t seen for a long time. But then again, what did Tim know? He hadn’t been there the last few months; he would have to learn what this new Dick was like. What Batman was like when it was Dick carrying the Cowl.

“Of course. You can even choose what we’re going to eat when you come home. As long as it’s compliant with your new diet plan, naturally.”

“Naturally”

Tim couldn’t quite hide the wonder in his voice when he uttered the word.  _ Naturally _ .

Of course, Tim was allowed to choose. Of course, Tim was a part of this family. Of course, Tim was worth asking.

This time he didn’t even try to hide his tears. He had missed his family. He had missed them so, so much.

(If only he could share this moment with Bruce.)

It took some time to get comfortable living in the penthouse with Damian, Alfred, and Dick. It felt like the Manor, but wrong. Like home, but really, really not.

Tim got his own room and when he told them to stay out of it, they respected it. As long as Tim managed to leave it for one meal time a day, they would leave him alone. Still, there was a set of rules Tim had to oblige to. It was weird to no longer be his own master, his own boss. No, he had to listen to Dick now; and Alfred, but everyone always had to listen to Alfred.

The rules were rather simple:

  1. He had to eat one meal a day with the ‘family’.
  2. He had to adhere to his diet plan.
  3. He had to take his antibiotics for his missing spleen.
  4. He had to talk to Dinah about his ‘feelings’ and ‘thoughts’ twice a week.
  5. He had to take his antidepressants on time.
  6. He wasn’t allowed out to patrol until Dick deemed him ‘fit’ again.
  7. He was only allowed to call Damian a Brat twice daily.
  8. No jokes about being suicidal.
  9. If he wanted to leave the house, he had to tell Alfred or Dick.
  10. He had to participate in game nights and movie nights.



If he followed these ten rules, life wasn’t too bad. Not that any of Dick’s ‘punishments’ were anything to fear. Though, Tim had to agree that having him train the Brat in Bo-staff fighting had been… an experience and one he could live without having to repeat a second time. Ever.

Living in the penthouse was painstakingly normal, and Tim feared that that was what made his skin itch and his heart ache. He was used to the weirdness of the Manor, the distant love from Bruce, and the daily routine that was dictated by the vigilante lifestyle. Nothing was ever too weird or unusual for the Manor and existing there was so, so different from existing in the penthouse.

They had a daily life, and it was weird to see Alfred make breakfast and all of them eating together, sitting down. It was weird to see Dick either leave for meetings at WE or work from home on the dining table, a crease between his brows and exhaustion and boredom radiating from every pore. It was even weirder to see Damian join Dick at the table, his laptop ready to battle online schooling and homework.

It was weird to see Dick become kind of like a dad to Damian. The way Dick would ruffle Damian’s hair, laughing when Damian batted him away while screaming bloody murder. The way Damian called Dick ‘Richard’ and how happy Dick looked every time it happened. The way Dick grounded the Brat, made him more human, and actually held him accountable for when he acted out.

Those two had learned to love each other in the last months. Months Tim hadn’t spent with them, months Tim had used to hunt an illusion, a dream, a fantasy. Months Tim had spent in a downward spiral of despair, unable to connect, but also unable to stop.

And looking at Dick and Damian at the breakfast table, hearing Alfred and Damian tease each other, their barbs full of jokes and no longer just downright insults, strengthened the feeling of isolation cooking in Tim’s heart.

He was alone in a home full of people who loved each other.

And, yeah, some part of him was aware that Dick loved him, and Alfred, too, and that Cass called every Sunday like a clockwork for a reason, but it was so hard to believe that when dread forced him to stay in his room because what if they didn’t like him, what if they didn’t want to see him, what if they actually didn’t love him at all?

The part of his brain that was still thinking logically even after years of depression told him it was utter bullshit, hell, even Dinah told him it was bullshit multiple times a week, but it felt impossible to even hope to believe that someday.

Tim just missed being that kid he had once been.

Happy, tiny Tim, who had issues, but also hopes and heroes. Tiny Tim, who did dumb stuff because he knew it was the right thing to do, and not because his brain constantly told him to be paranoid or obsessive. Tiny Tim, who had looked at Batman and Robin and seen heroes who would save the world.

If Tim looked at them now, all he could see was his big brother slowly dying because he wore a mantel he had never wanted to wear and a kid, desperately trying to find his humanity through beating up bad guys.

Tragedies, all of them.

The weirdest thing that came from staying at the penthouse, however, was the fact that he didn’t go out into the night with Batman and Robin. Tim had been a hero for over five years now, had his own Rogues Gallery and arch-nemesis. It was in his blood to fight and to run and to brawl. But Dick had forbidden him from going out, and had promised him that one day Tim would have a place next to Batman again, but only if Dinah gave her okay.

And in that moment, when Dick had spoken his verdict, Tim had felt nothing. He had been numb and empty and sad. What was one more thing to lose? What was one more disappointment to bear?

But, now? Months into his recovery, his antidepressants slowly started doing their job. The therapy began working its ways into his brain, and with that something else came back together with Tim’s will to maybe-want-to-live-again:  _ his need to do something. _

He was still sad, he still wanted to die sometimes –  _ badly _ – but he was also thrumming with an energy Tim only vaguely remembered from better days.

It was a slow start in getting back into his old form. He began with training circles Bruce had taught him, and nobody needed to know that he broke down crying when he remembered Bruce’s hand on his shoulder telling him he did good. It continued with sneaking glances into Dick’s active case files and making hints in the right direction when he found something worth investigating. It ended with Tim helping Babs on the comms during the busy nights, and the nights Damian wasn’t allowed to go out and help himself.

(And wasn’t it just funny that the Brat was forbidden from going out more than three nights a week? Dick was such a  _ dad _ .)

It felt good, it felt productive, to do something again. It made it possible for him to forget this hole in inside of him at least for a little while. It made it possible to feel like Tim Wayne again. And once upon a time Tim had liked Tim Wayne, and had liked the person he had the potential to become.

Small things became accomplishments to Tim over the last few months, and after a while it stopped feeling like losing, whenever he was happy about managing two meals a day or getting out of bed at all. It felt like winning instead, when he didn’t cry after Dick told a story about Bruce, not aware of the fact that Tim was standing behind him. It felt like winning to beat Dick during a Bo-staff training match, even though he knew that it would be hard as fuck to beat Dick in anything else.

It felt like winning to stand at Bruce’s grave, glancing down on the still too new headstone and cry.

It felt like winning to not want to die while doing so.

“Hey, Bruce. This is the first time I’ve visited you; I know, it’s been a while.”

What did one say to the grave of their parent? What did one say when they were late to grieve? Had Bruce moved on? Had he ever lingered at all?

It was weird how they basically knew nothing about what came after. They were friends with aliens, and magicians, and ghosts, many of whom had died and come back, and yet nobody really knew what came after. Nobody knew what it was like to die and stay dead.

“I thought, I’d give you a life update, keep you aware of what’s going on. I mean, Alfred visits you every Saturday, and I know Dick and Damian often come together to talk to you, but maybe you’d like to hear my voice, too.”

Tim wasn’t the only person in the cemetery, but he felt utterly alone standing in front of this grave, tears running down his cheeks. It wasn’t the bad kind of lonely. It was a loneliness that reminded Tim of Bruce, of those first few months when it had only been the two of them. When Bruce was grieving and Tim was trying so, so hard to please. It felt weirdly like the good old times.

“So, some good news to start it off: I don’t want to die anymore. At least not constantly. I kind of like being alive, even if you’re no longer there. Even if my dad is still dead.”

Tim’s gaze wandered, taking in the other visitors in the cemetery, busy cleaning graves or talking to the people they had taken along. Dick had asked him if Tim wanted some company, if he needed some support, but Tim had wanted to do this alone. He needed to have a moment just between himself and Bruce.

“And, hey, Kon came back, even if he isn’t really the same. And… and Bart did, too. There is no Young Justice yet, but maybe, when all of us healed up a little, I could do that again.”

It was true. Kon was back, Bart was back, and Tim had no idea what to feel about it.

“What else can I tell you? Hm… Alfred… Alfred is sad a lot, but it’s a different kind of sad than I am. I think he feels his age, and it is hard for him to deal with the fact that most of us will die before him. Wow, that was depressing, wasn’t it?”

It would be so much easier if Bruce was here. If his dad would be sitting in front of him, probably not answering either, but  _ listening _ , making Tim still feel heard.

“And Dick, you ask? Well… I can understand now why you never wanted for any of us to become the Batman. I really do. It’s destroying him, slowly. I don’t know when the last time was that he slept a full night. Or laughed so much he cried. He is a fucking hypocrite, that one. But then again, he learned that from you, didn’t he?”

It was true. Dick was running himself into the ground, helping Tim, helping Damian, helping the world. It was something that had always infuriated Tim, back when Dick had been Nightwing and was set on a self-destructive path. But Tim never really knew what to do about it. All he could possibly do was be there when Dick eventually crashed and burned. Just as Tim had been there when Bruce crashed and burned, ready to be Robin to a Batman that wanted to die.

And, yeah, Tim wasn’t Robin anymore, couldn’t find it in himself to be bitter about it anymore, but he would still be there when Dick needed him. Because Dick was there for him. 

_ That was what brothers are for. That was what family is for. _

“I could probably try and say a few things about Damian as well, huh?”

Silence.

“He isn’t as bad as he was in the beginning, I guess. He didn’t try to kill me even once since my arrival in the penthouse and only a small part of me thinks that’s because it would be no fun to kill me if I want to die anyways. And Dick yelled at him when he called me worthless once, and he hasn’t done it since, so progress, I guess?”

The truth was, the more time Tim spent at the penthouse, watching Dick and Damian and Alfred interact, the more he could see why Dick had wanted to connect with Damian. Why he wanted to save and love the kid. He was a bastard and a pest, but he was also still a child. It had been super uncomfortable to realize just how easy it was for Tim to hurt – but also help – the kid, when he saw how happy it made Damian when Tim complimented his drawing of Alfred.

It had been shocking to realize that the kid had other emotions besides anger and fear. It had been shocking to realize that at the end of the day Damian was also just human.

They still fought, like, twice daily, and Tim had thrown a glass at Damian yesterday, but it felt more like a brotherly relationship in its beginnings than actual murder attempts and retaliations.

“And now you probably want to know how your favorite child is doing: Cass. She misses you. I know she does. And I think she misses us and Gotham, too. I might have to force her to come back. She needs us just as much as I need her. But she is just so much more of a badass and that means she is even worse in showing it. Yeah, I didn’t know that was possible as well.”

He missed Cass. But that was okay. Tim had a plan. He would talk to Dick and then they would get Cass back, because it couldn’t stand that four of Bruce’s kids lived in Gotham, and only Cass was hero-ing far away.

Tim needed his sister back, especially since she saved his life and he never got a chance to thank her. At least not in person. And it wasn’t a thank you if it wasn’t also combined with a hug. Cass and Dick lived by that philosophy. And Tim tried to as well.

“Jason is… Jason. I think he misses you, too, but in his own way. I mean, there is no one left who can kill the Joker for him now. He might have to do it himself after all. He is in and out of Gotham, never staying in one place for too long. But he stopped trying to kill me? So, that’s good, I guess. And I think he called Dick that one time. But… Jason is Jason.”

Tim stared at the headstone. It was weird to feel so many things again. Everything had been so numb, so far away, after Bruce died. And now his emotions were immediate again. He could feel again. But that also meant that Tim had to grapple with the two pictures of Jason in his head:

One, the young Robin Tim had fallen in love with – the hero, certainly not Jason, thank you very much – who laughed when he saved the city, who was Batman’s pride and joy.

And then the angry Red Hood, using his knife to slit Tim’s throat, using Tim’s trust to almost end his life.

Tim didn’t know what he felt when it came to Jason Todd, but he was pretty sure neither did Bruce. They had been a weird-ass family, all of them together, and Dick was trying to make them one again.

Tim wasn’t sure yet, if he was ready for something like that. If he wanted for his world to be in Gotham again. For his heart to start loving these crazy bastards again. But he might try it.

He might try being a hero on Batman’s side again. He might try liking Damian as his crazy brother, and Cass as his lovely sister, and Alfred as his exasperated grandfather. He might take a chance.

“I miss you, Bruce. I miss you more than I thought was possible. It is still weird to wake up some days knowing that you won’t be there. It is still weird to see Batman fly over the Gotham sky, and knowing that it isn’t you saving the world. Saving me. Because you were my dad. You were my dad in ways my father never was. And I love you. And I miss you.”

Tim had stopped crying at some point while he recounted his take on the family, but this admission forced the grief inside of him to spill.

“And… and I think I am at a point where I can believe that someday I might be okay with that. I’m not there yet. I still feel like falling when I realize that you will never hug me again, that you won’t be there when I eventually finish High School. That you will never tell me how proud you are. How much you love me. But someday… one day… I will only be sad when I realize that and not devastated.”

It was freeing. It was horrible. Tim was sick to his stomach, guilt and pain and grief trying to drown him. But at the same time? Tim could breathe even though waves of despair came crashing down. Tim could breathe and feel and cry – and it wasn’t the end of the world.

It was maybe even the beginning of a new one.

* * *

Dick Grayson was tired.

No, that was the wrong word. Dick Grayson was wary. He was well past tiredness, well past any feeling that could be resolved with a good nap and a few hours of relaxation.

He couldn’t remember the last time his brain had shut up long enough for Dick to enjoy more than four hours of sleep, couldn’t remember when he had last left his bed and felt awake or alive or like himself.

He knew why he felt like this, he knew the reason for every creaking bone and every burning muscle: Batman. The fact that Dick Grayson was not only head of WE, but also the Batman. And an important member of the Justice League. And the mentor of both Robin and Red Robin.

Some days Dick woke up and realized that the night Bruce had died, he had traded his own life against the knock-off version of Bruce’s.

He had quit the job he loved, he had left the city he had sworn to protect, he had taken up a mantel he had never wanted, and he had adopted a kid that didn’t want  _ him _ .

Things were better now, a year after Bruce had fucked off and died. Dick didn’t feel like crying anymore whenever he looked into the mirror and searched for the smiles he had once so freely shared. Dick didn’t hate the penthouse anymore, instead coming to call it home more often than not.

Dick loved Damian with all his heart. And he had finally gotten Tim back, loving him just as dearly.

He had managed to convince WE to just let him do charity work and help people, instead of having to use that fucking business degree he had never cared for in the first place. He organized fundraisers instead, or art galleries – and wasn’t it nice to share a hobby with freaking Wonder Woman – and made sure to always donate a few millions to ease the guilt of suddenly being this rich.

Dick had been able to ignore Bruce’s wealth while he was still a child, only noting how giant Bruce’s mansion was, and when he had been older he moved out, never once touching the trust fund Bruce had forced on him. Dick had always just lived as Dick Grayson, with his salary and his friends, enjoying the simple life and ignoring small problems in his house or flats because he couldn’t pay the repair service.

And now he was a fucking billionaire. Tim and Damian, too. Alfred was similarly well off, but the butler rarely cared for his money, immediately donating it after Bruce dared to pay him. Or now Dick.

Still, Dick was rich now, a figurehead of a multi-billion-dollar company and he did his best in trying to keep the shareholders happy while simultaneously losing as much of the money to city projects and aid agencies as he humanly could.

But at the end of the day, when Dick was finally allowed to pry the Cowl from his head, and send Damian to bed with a kiss on the forehead, to fall into his own bed, wet from the shower and bathed in exhaustion, he didn’t feel like himself; he felt like Bruce Wayne’s faulty clone.

Sometimes he tried to remember the person he had been before; the Dick Grayson, who was Robin or Nightwing or the Leader of the Titans, the Dick Grayson, who had been happy.

It got harder and harder each day.

Some part of him still knew what it felt like to swing from one rooftop to another without the weight of a cape trailing behind. Some part of him still remembered the laughter and joy of going out to drink with his friends. Some part of him still remembered what it was like to just be a brother instead of a dad.

And, god, that wasn’t a conversation Dick looked forward to having with Damian.

How do you tell an angry assassin child, that you loved with all your being, that you needed to formally adopt him to make sure that he would be allowed to stay with you?

Yeah, Dick wasn’t ready for that conversation yet.

But at least Tim was back. At least Cass had been fast enough and saved her brother and brought him back into the fold. So, yeah, Dick had another responsibility. Someone else Dick needed to make sure didn’t succumb to the demons in his head. Someone else he had to watch over.

But it was worth it. It was so, so worth it. Every time Tim’s reluctant smile graced them with its presence, Dick felt his heart swell up. Every time Tim made a joke or joined them during game night, in it to win, Dick could take a deep breath.

He had missed his little brother. He had missed him so, so much.

Their life had changed since Tim returned, another layer of liveliness turning the penthouse into a home. Damian and Alfred had done their best together with Dick to turn this apartment homely before that – Damian’s pictures decorating the living areas, Alfred’s spice cabinet ever growing – but the added presence really helped.

That didn’t mean the first few months hadn’t been hell.

Dick remembered his fear whenever Tim’s door stayed close, and the hatred he was so afraid of finding in his brother’s gaze. It was frightening to know how close they had all come to permanently losing Tim – the boy had been far to comfortable dancing on the edge.

Fuck that, Tim had been ready to jump.

Cass had caught him in the last minute and now Dick was trying his best to make sure her efforts weren’t for nothing.

And looking at Tim and Damian both sitting at the kitchen table, Tim with his tablet in front of him, Damian with a pencil ready to go, he could almost believe that he had managed to catch the boy.

Neither of them looked unhappy, and Dick couldn’t even detect any hidden weapons on either of them. They almost… they almost looked like brothers. Dick’s heart felt warm at that thought.

Sometimes it hurt him to realize that only a very limited number of people understood how much Dick loved Damian. That only so few people realized what an absolutely amazing boy this prickly kid was. Of course, Dick had taken a couple of tries as well… but watching Damian happily sketch a dog, made Dick feel dizzy with love.

Fuck.

He really would have to ask Damian to legally become his kid.

It was scary to realize that that was something Dick wanted. He wanted to be able to protect Damian, of course. He wanted to know that Damian would always be safe, would always have a home – but it had taken Tim calling Dick “a dad” for Dick to truly recognize his feelings for what they were: Because, yes, he wanted to be Damian’s dad.

He wanted the domesticity moments like these offered:

Alfred in the kitchen preparing a coffee cake, Tim and Damian working on the kitchen table, Dick able to take a couple of deep breaths with a coffee cup in his hand, with no more meetings for today.

Dick almost felt alive in moments like these. He felt almost human. Almost like himself.

It was weird to miss Dick Grayson, to grieve himself, but Dick could deal with it if that meant more moments like this. Just being able to look at his brothers and see them being healthy helped.

Maybe it was time to call Dinah and ask her if it would be okay for Tim to go out again.

Damian would profit from learning how to fight alongside more heroes. Maybe one day Damian would be in a team of his own, and before that, he needed to have the most common team maneuvers down. Tim would be happy to go out on the streets again, Dick could see the itch underneath Tim’s skin.

Red Robin wanted to fly again.

(Dick could ignore the need for Nightwing to fly as well)

“Richard, stop standing in the doorway like a dolt and sit down. You hovering is unbecoming.”

Dick laughed as he heard Damian’s petulant exclamation. He joined his brothers at the table, his own folder with Wayne Enterprise data ready. The two of them almost made his work worth it.

Especially since Tim seemed to agree:

“Yeah, please sit down. I am afraid you’re gonna fall over, if you keep on standing there.”

Dick tried to hide his wince – the boys didn’t need to know how tired he was. There was no need to burden them with the ache deep in his bones or the fiery exhaustion pulling Dick down. He could do this. Bruce had done this for years, Dick would not stop now.

He couldn’t stop.

“I’m here, I’m here… sorry for enjoying the two of you getting along.”

Damian yelled in outrage, red decorating his tiny cheeks, and Dick couldn’t help himself, especially when Tim almost choked on his coffee at this outrageous accusation, he laughed. It felt like the first belly laugh in a century, leaving him wheezing and catching his breath.

It wasn’t even all that funny, but…

But it was good to be reminded of the fact that healing was possible.

That Damian was more settled and relaxed than he had ever been before, that Tim had overcome the worst pitfalls of his depression, now smiling again, that… that all of them could be a family.

That a life without Bruce was possible.

(and one day Dick would deal with the remains of Bruce’s life that were swallowing him up)

It was Alfred who interrupted them, hot cake in his hands, a smile on his face:

“My dear gentlemen, if you could please settle down? This cake won’t get eaten on its own.”

Alfred took a seat next to them, and Dick felt some of the ever-present tension bleed out of him. He could allow himself this much – one afternoon without any duty, one afternoon to be just himself, whoever that might be.

He didn’t wait for Alfred to give his okay, fetching plates and cutlery from the kitchen, before the old man could stand up again. It felt domestic to ruffle Damian’s hair and to knock his hip against Tim’s chair… it felt domestic to grin when whipped cream landed on Tim’s nose, and Damian laughed out loud.

It felt like home when Alfred chided the boys with a twinkle in his eyes, and everything seemed so calm for once.

There were many things Dick had to do, with becoming Batman at night being only one of them, but right now he couldn’t care less for the important documents in his folder, or the permission slip he had to sign for Tim. He didn’t worry about Damian’s limited social contacts, or the case of murders Batman was investigating. He wasn’t wondering about how to best ask Damian to be his kid, and how to make sure Tim didn’t feel excluded.

Right now, the only thing that counted was keeping the peace between his brothers, and to eat this delicious cake.

Everything else would come later.

Dick Grayson was alive, and all his loved ones were as well – some of them were even laughing. Maybe this was all he could ask for – maybe this was enough. 


End file.
